


Hooked-Up

by inkyopolis



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Dualscar, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Insults, M/M, Pitch For Pay, Rimming, Sex Work, Unhealthy Kismesissitude, top!Mallek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 18:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21002336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkyopolis/pseuds/inkyopolis
Summary: There’s blackrom and then there’s what you’ve managed to wind up with: Fickle pitch-for-pay with a violet-blood malcontent who is old enough to be your ancestor.Thank fuck it helps pay the bills.





	Hooked-Up

You squint at the lines of code on the screen. When it’s up and running, this little baby will autoparse the Condy’s shipwide radio transmissions, pulling out the actual signals used to control the drones from the noise used to mask the traffic. You don’t have nearly enough CPU-cycles to crack the 8192-bit encrypted signals themselves, but with enough data, you can train a machine-learning algorithm to run a traffic pattern analysis against the drone movements. And then, once that’s up and running, you’re in business. You won’t know what they’re commanding the drones to do, but you’ll know when commands are actually being sent, and that’s an edge.

That is, as soon as you get all of this actually working. 

And you’ve been chipping at this for a while. 

And your brain feels like oatmeal.

‘_Oatmeal,_’ you think. A gurgle comes from your belly. It knows you are thinking about food. 

When was the last time you shoved nutrients in your body? Breakfast. It was soda then, not oatmeal. But soda is calories so it counts as a meal. 

“Okay, time to refuel,” you say to the code, making sure that it knows you are just low on power, not that it is beating you. 

It is, for real, not beating you. _Nope._

Your back crackles like fireworks as you stand up from the chair. Guess who forgot to get up and move around during their coding stretch? ‘_Whoops._’ Rolling your shoulders in circles causes rubber band snaps from your tendons. 

‘_Gross._’ 

You cast a disparaging glance down at your chair with its pathetic cracking leatherette and exposed yellow cushion. “_You_ are not helping,” you admonish. 

You wander down to your efficiency kitchen and flick on the overhead fluorescent light. It lets out a contented hum. Cracking open the fridge, you peer inside. A quarter full 2 litre of soda (aka breakfast), a squeeze bottle of yellow mustard, and a week-old half-eaten Grubway hoagie stare back at you.

Grimacing, you carefully pull the sandwich out of the fridge and peel back the waxy crinkle-wrap. 

It may have developed its own intelligent life, judging by the size of the fungus sprouting from the bread. Maybe you can get it to write your code for you. 

Wincing and wishing you’d handled the thing with a set of rubber gloves, you toss it in the trash. 

You try the cabinets, and, what luck, there’s a half-full sleeve of white flour crackers. 

‘_Score._’

You shove a handful of the stale salt squares into your mouth. Okay, it is probably time to pick-up some of those life-sustaining essentials. Food. More soda for sure.

‘_Hrm…_’ you think. You don’t remember feeling too terribly comfortable with your boonbuck balance last time you looked. It’s probably not gotten any better on it’s own either. And you really don’t want to just lowjack some grub from the mom and pop’s down the street. They’re working folk afterall.

With the clarity of raid siren, **_he_** pops into your head. Just like that, the crotch of your pants suddenly feels just a bit more snug. You look down and, sure enough, halfway to boner town. “You scrub, we’ve got an empire to take down,” you chide at your bulge. 

It takes no notice. 

Broke, hungry, and horny. It’s quite the trifecta. You know exactly how you can solve all three… it’s just. Well. It’s work.

‘_It’s work for hire_,’ you think.

Your stomach grumbles again, despite the crackers. 

‘_Goddamnit_ _fine._’ 

You pull the palmhusk out of your pocket and punch “hey;” into a new chat window. You stand there for a minute, waiting for something. Anything. 

There’s no response.

You put the phone down on the counter, open the fridge, grab the two litre and take a swig. Sweet carbonated ambrosia fizzles in your mouth. 

There’s a buzz on the counter and you nearly spit out the mouthful. 

‘Hey,’ reads the text. ‘Haven’t heard from you in a while.’

‘sorry!;’ (‘_!sorry_,’ you think to yourself) ‘been busy with some projects;’ 

Your finger hovers over the send button. You pause and do a gut-check. ‘_Do I want to do this? I could always reroute some drones for delivery, maybe try hacking some blockchain exchanges for extra coin… and then maybe just flip on QuadTube for a while. But… I also haven’t left the house today…_ ’

‘you up to anything tonight?;’ you thumb and hit send.

‘I’ll be home at 8. Assuming you still know how to get in?’

You do. ‘see you at 8;’ 

\---

It’s been a while now, hasn’t it? At least… four months since you were last here? You close the front door behind you and slide out of your sandals. The place looks exactly the same. Minimalism, punctuated with the occasional painting of the sea, or some boat, or some brooding long-dead ancestor. You hope the painting of a jellyfish is still above the toilet in the bathroom. You like that one. 

He’s not here yet, of course. This is the little “game” that you two have. He locks up the house with his fully automated pin encrypted security system. You show up, easily bypass it because, despite the fact that it’s pincoded, he has the memory of a fish and never uses randomly generated numbers. It’s always some simple four-digit combo: his hatching day, his ancestors’ hatching days, his respiteblock number backwards, the same number four times. It’s pretty embarrassing. 

There’s always a slight moment of panic when you let yourself in. It’s possible that you’ll get caught. That some snooping neighbor will spot you, and that there will be trouble. You’ll have to explain why you were breaking into a house in a upper-caste neighborhood. Or, even worse, they’ll decide to take matters into their own hands. 

“Home-Invader Harpooned by Vigilant Nextdoor Neighbor” 

Both the imagined headlines, and the prospect of getting speared, are not particularly appealing.

But so far, so good. 

Thankfully, there’s never any worry that someone else is here. Despite the gigantic house, it’s just him. Or at least, you’re pretty sure it’s just him. It’s always possible he has some new piece on the side that you don’t know about. 

Unlikely, but possible. Anything’s possible.

You’re here after all. 

You wander through the kitchen, opening up the cabinets to see if there’s anything good. Of course, it’s packed to the gills with epicurean delights from Trolam Sonoma. You pull a couple down and shove them in your backpack. A visit to Ampora’s means access to a world of consumables that you’d never actually buy for yourself, but would certainly borrow as part of an informal understanding that they do not need to be returned. You open up the next set of cabinets and repeat the process.

Once your bag has reached the point of just about bursting, you set it down and look at your watch. A few minutes before 8. ‘_He’ll be late. He’s always late,_’ you think. You drop your backpack in the living room and decide to kill some time by wandering through the halls. 

You look into at least four guest bedrooms. Just about all of them look the same as the last time you were here. No sign of life.

‘_All this, and for what?_’ you think. 

You wonder how he takes care of it all before you remember, of course, he has hired help. He has hired everything.

That last thought sticks a thorn into you. ‘_Whoops, little self-own there._’ 

You finally come to his bedroom. Two closets, one for boots and capes, the other for shirts and pants. On top of the dresser, a treasure box of gold jewelry spills out, an obscene bounty, plundered from god-knows-where. You’d never lift it, because you’re pretty sure, unlike with the food, _he would give a shit_, but that’s not stopped you from trying on a few. 

They’re not the best look for you truth be told. They clash a bit with your stainless steel piercings. The capes on the other hand...

You wander over to his nightstand and open up the top drawer. A fleshnook, a butt plug, some dongs and a vibrator, some bulge pills… ‘_Aha!_’ You pocket the small clear bottle of lube and close the drawer. 

As you pull the bottom drawer open--the one where he keeps his porn--you hear the beeps of a code being punched in on the front door. A cold sweat breaks out on your chest. You are thankful it won’t show through your hoodie. 

You walk out of his room and back into the foyer. 

He’s hanging his cape on a hook in the entryway when you spot him.

“Hey.” You say, trying to act casual while your heart is in your throat. You do not sound casual, you’re pretty sure.

He cranes his neck to look at you. The right corner of his mouth turns up in a grin. 

The heels of his boots percuss along the tile floors as he walks past you. 

You follow him into the living room, where he takes a seat in the plushest leather throne this side of the Alternia. You wish you had _that_ in front of your workstation. 

He looks at you with tired eyes and you realize it really has been a while since you’ve seen him. He’s gotten… older. Somehow. Weathered. The patch of grey at his temples is bigger than you remember. 

“So...” you sputter. “Hi.”

He undoes the top button of his shirt. 

You swallow.

He scratches his chin twice, then spits, “I wish you’d dress a little nicer when you come over. God knows what the neighbors think.” 

Your nerves start to settle with his opening gambit now in play. “You care what the neighbors think?” you ask. 

“Not really, no,” he reflects.

“I’m sure they’re surprised anyone actually comes to visit you,” you try. 

He sighs, bored. That wasn’t your best insult, and he’s letting you know it. “You should make me a drink.”

You grimace, the rhythm of this dance not coming back to you as quickly as you’d like, and wander over to the bar at the side of the room. Light bounces off the crystal decanters. “Still take your scotch by the quart?” you ask, pouring a generous few shots into a rock glass.

He laughs. Actually laughs. And it’s a relief. You turn and hand him the glass.

“Oh that’s an old joke.” He takes the glass from your outstretched hand. “Be careful you don’t break it.”

The corner of your mouth lifts up in a smile. “Oh, but I like breaking old things. That’s why I came.”

He settles back and takes a sip of his beverage, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He continues, “Hadn’t heard from you in a while. Started wondering if you’d finally gotten collared.”

You give an ambivalent shrug. “I’d figured you’d probably kicked the bucket after last time.”

He rolls his eyes. “Lazy. Lazy lazy lazy. You can do better than that.”

You sneer. It annoys you when he picks apart your blackrom game. Of course, he also probably knows that, and thus, why he critiques it. “I figured…” you trail off, scrambling for the first thing that comes to mind, “...that I might play the field for a while and see if I could do a little better.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “And yet... here you are. Well, we should toast.” He knows your hands are empty, that he hasn’t offered you a drink. A small but practiced cruelty of form. He raises his glass and smiles, the wrinkles on his face more vivid when he does. “To failing to do better.” He knocks back his drink and shudders.

“Mmm,” you nod. ‘_Okay, that one stung a little._’ You decide maybe it’s time to turn the tables a bit more in your favor, so you pull out the bottle of lube and stick it on the side-table. 

He looks down. “Ah, well that’s rather straight to the point. But I suppose that’s ceruleans for you.” He looks you up and down, then continues, “If you’ll excuse me for a minute.” He gets up from his chair heading down the hallway towards the bathroom. On his way, he calls back, “I don’t have a dumpster in here, but try to make yourself comfortable anyways.” 

You take a seat on the couch and flick through Instagrub while he’s prepping. You can feel your face growing flush. He’s getting more quips off than you, and you’d be lying if it wasn’t making you a little angry. ‘_Exactly what he wants._’ you think. It’s hard though. There’s a specific register you have to work in with him, one that’s not your mother-tongue-lash. That, of course, is gamer trash-talk. That stuff is easy and comes naturally. It’s just slurs about someone’s lusus piled sky-high. His taste is for quality over quantity. 

You resolve to bring him down a few pegs.

After a few minutes go by, he comes back out and takes his place on the leather throne once again. “Ready?” he asks. 

You cough and clear your throat. “You think you can get it up?”

He chuckles. “Well, that all depends on you now doesn’t it. I need a little excitement to get going. And well..” he shrugs, “the street urchin look doesn’t particularly do it for me.” 

‘_Such an asshole_’ you think as you pull your hoodie and undershirt up and over your horns in a single swift motion. ‘_I am going to make you beg._’ 

He grins, “No new holes in your body? I’m disappointed.”

You sneer. He’s getting to you. Goddamnit he’s _good_. 

There’s blackrom and then there’s what you’ve managed to wind up with: Fickle pitch-for-pay with a violet-blood malcontent who is old enough to be your ancestor. 

Thank fuck it helps pay the bills.

You walk over to his little throne and stand yourself right between his spread legs. 

Letting out a contented sigh, he looks you up and down. Spotting the gaze, you run a hand over your pec, giving it a small squeeze. “You still fucking yourself at night thinking about me?” you ask. 

He runs his shiny black boot up the inside of your leg. “I throw some garbage around the room to get the smell right too.” 

You flick your nipple ring. “Bet you’d really like to suck on these huh?” You lean over him, putting your hands on the back of his chair. Pushing your chest closer to his face. 

He squirms, swallows, the slightest bit of purple showing on his cheeks. “Maybe…,” he clears his throat, “...you should help me take off my boots.”

‘_Starting to get there,_’ you think, standing up and gripping the boot. Pulling on it makes him slide in his chair a bit and he has to reposition himself to hold on. He could take these off himself, but part of you wonders if he just likes a show of how strong you are. One boot slides off, and you repeat the process on the other. 

Running the back of your hand against your forehead, you mime wiping sweat off your brow. In response, he reaches out and cups your package through the thin polyester of your track pants, working your hardening cock against his hand. 

“Aren’t you eager,” you chide as he reaches up to your waistband and pulls it down. 

He smiles with prurient delight as your semi-erect cock flops out. “Too lazy to even put on underwear I see.” 

“Weren’t sure if you were going to be too feeble to get the wrapping off,” you spit.

He licks his lips and takes your cock in his hand, working your shaft back and forth, back and forth. It feels good, despite the odd sensation of the rings on his fingers. 

“This your exercise for the week?” you ask. 

“Fuck you,” he replies without looking up at you. 

‘_Direct hit.’_' “Oh we will get there my good dude.”

He runs his thumb over your pale-blue cockhead, rubbing the glistening slickness of your precum around in a circle. “It’s such a shame that a dick like yours is attached to someone with your personality.”

You grin. He always gets like this: half jealousy, half size-queen at heart. “You like this, you like my fat blue bulge?” you tease. 

And, rather than retort, he leans forward and tries to take you in his mouth. You pull back before he can quite get there. “Oh _fuck_ no,” you spit, “did you even brush your teeth while you were in the bathroom?”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh please, like you did before you came over. Besides, the scotch will kill anything.”

“I’d like it more if you just drank mouthwash. Your breath smells like a skunk died in a brewery while smoking a cigar.” 

He gives you the dopiest pouty eyes, a satirists cartoon of being hurt. 

“You’re pathetic.” You rub your leg against the inside of his. “Maybe I don’t really feel like getting my dick chewed on by your sloppy-ass right now.”

“You like it when I use my teeth,” he drawls.

“Oh yeah, I love getting head and having my dick look like a zebra for the next week,” you retort sarcastically. That, unfortunately, wasn’t too far off from the truth the last time he sucked your dick. He’s eager, but not particularly careful. Instead, you kneel down in front of him, genuflecting in front of the throne, and begin undoing his belt buckle. “Just sit your sorry ass back and let me run this show.”

He grins like the mewler that caught the squeakbeast and completely unbuttons his shirt, his small bit of tummy-fat jiggling as he wiggles out of it.

You undo his button, zipper, and snag the waistband of his silk boxers, yanking the whole businesses down his legs in one fell swoop. You could probably tear the clothes right off of him if you really tried, but he seems like he legitimately cares a lot about his clothes and the way he looks, so that may be one of those, ‘_out of bounds, even for the blackest of blackroms_’ kind of things. 

“Oh yeah, don’t bother standing up to make this easier or anything,” you complain.

He laughs, “You gotta do the work if you want the reward _pin-cushion_,” he barks.

He almost made it twenty minutes before trotting out that chestnut. You’re almost proud of him.

He’s already got a small creek’s worth of ropey precum splayed out over his pubic hair. You reach down and run a finger into one of the pools, then lick the salty fluid off the tip of your finger.

“You’re disgusting,” he sneers.

“You love it,” you quip, knowing the truth is a sharp arrow. You reach underneath his thighs, pushing them up and exposing the pinkish-purple of his hole. ‘_Time to eat some old troll ass,_’ you think, draw back, and spit on his opening.

Running your tongue against him in broad circles, you let saliva drip from your mouth. There’s something about eating his ass that’s always so visceral. He’s ridiculously sensitive, and every time you work your maw into him, he lets out some obscene sound. Every quiver and quake transmits straight to your tongue. You are the pilot of a rocketship. The controls are just a bit weird.

After a beat, you pull back and grab the lube off the side-table. You pop the cap, spread some on your hand, and stare him down as you slide your middle finger into him. He bites his lower lip as you sink in, all the way down to your knuckle, the slowly slide completely back out. 

His legs twitch as you drive your digit back in, curling your finger to try for that sensitive spot. He reaches down and takes a hold of his own cock, starts working it back and forth. 

“Who’s disgusting now?” you ask.

“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbles half into the chair.

You draw back out of him, rub a few conciliatory concentric circles against his opening, then push not two, but the tips of three fingers into him. 

His legs twitch, kick up, and he sucks in a gasp of air. “Oh **FUCK**,” he spits as you sink your middle digits into his yielding flesh.

“Wow, you must have been thinking about me a lot recently. You’re looser than I remember,” you comment in the most, disinterested, matter-of-fact tone you can muster.

“You’re a _bastard_,” he tries through bared teeth. 

“Aww, that was pretty weaksauce my dude,” you chide. Your face feels flush with heat, half from the fornication, half from knowing he’s breaking. Pleased with yourself, you slide your fingers out of him and gently smack his opening a few times. 

You can see the fury in his eyes now, so he’s stoked to the point you want. You rub your lubed up hand up and down your erection, making sure he catches an eyeful. You lick your lips and grunt, “I’m gonna fuckin’ wreck you Ampora.”

And, before he has a chance to get a word in, you angle and push down, sliding your cockhead into his opening. 

He winces, cries out with a help that echoes throughout the house. 

You slip for a second, realizing you may have moved to quick there. “You good?” you ask.

“Fucking cereulean _**twat**_,” he barks. 

It’s not “no” or “stop,” words that you two have a standing agreement to respect. But still, you swallow and look at him for any sign you should stop.

His mouth hangs open as he sucks breath, his eyes winced up. You feel his legs wrap around you, ankles hooking around each other. It’s signal. Acknowledgement. You’re good. 

You smirk. “Yeah, I thought so,” you say, rocking your dick into him. You reach down and take his cock in your hand, and fuck, he’s leaking like a busted faucet. 

He pants, barely keeping his breath, bodily terminals between pain and pleasure shorted. Circuits are flooding. DDoS to the nervous system.

‘_I’m in,_’ you think in some cartoonish hacker voice from god-knows-where. You grit your teeth and start working the rhythm--a dance you do so much better. “You take dick like a fish to water,” you spit as he squirms in pleasure underneath you. “I bet me and some friends could come in here and run a train on you. Bet you’d fuckin’ love that, wouldn’t you?” you croon.

He whines and it’s the desperate confirmation that he’d let you in a heartbeat.

‘_Fucking pwned._’

The wet sound of your balls slapping against his crack fill the room, starting to reach a staccato-pace. “You’d love that. Big bad high-blood getting turned into a bulgeslut fucktoy.” 

“Oh, _**shit**_” he moans. 

“Gonna take turns painting your fuckin’ guts all the colors of the rainbow.” Your scrotum hugs your body tight and you can tell you are getting close. “Yeah, I’m gonna fuckin’ come. You want it? _Fucking tell me you want it_.”

Delirium is setting in. “God. _FUCK._ _**FUCK!**_” he sings, wrapping his arms around your neck.

You bury your dick in him as endorphins rip through you, the first waves spilling into his innards. You lean down and jam your tongue into his mouth, the nickel taste of scotch flooding your olfactory senses. 

No nuance, your mouths gnash together as you ride the wave crescents of pleasure and power.

You finally pull your head back, half to catch your breath, half because if you ddon’t, he’ll chew the fuck out of your lips. Saliva trails between you as the last spasms course through your body.

“Don’t… don’t pull out. I’m close,” he begs. 

Oh right. You almost forgot about_ him_. 

You swallow and work his shaft back and forth. He shuts his eyes, his body bearing down around you like he’s about to get thrown off the plank. Hips bucking wild, he fucks himself on you and you can feel it welling up inside him. 

He lets out a deep, guttural moan and the wave breaks. Globs of sticky heat pour out over your hand and onto his belly. 

‘_Lol, gross,_’ you think, then kiss him again. 

When his body grows quiet, you slowly pull out. For a long moment, the two of you don’t move, just breathe. 

Finally, you clear your throat. “GG.”

He blinks, discombobulated. “What?”

“Good game,” you clarify, wiping the bodily fluids off your hand and onto his leg.

He sneers. “You are filth.”

‘_Brought low by some good deep-dicking,_’ you think, proud of your work here. You laugh and flick your sweat damp hair away from your eyes. “You got fucked by filth.”

He gives you an acknowledging half-grin, “Well, thanks for stopping by…Should I just assume you’re walking off with all my silverware, or do I actually need to go and check?”

Pulling your track pants back on, you snort. “I’d make some crack about stealing your dignity, but I think that’s long gone.” 

He pushes himself up off the chair as you finish getting dressed. Naked as he was on wriggling day, sweat and seed running down his legs, he picks up his glass off the side-table and heads over to the bar, pours himself another drink. As you pick up your backpack and start to head out, without turning to face you, he flats, “Good game Mallek. Good game. See you next time you’re desperate.”

\---

Back at home, you start unloading the canned goods from your backpack onto the shelves. The backpack always seems so heavy when you’re leaving, but in actuality, it’s only about a dozen cans and containers. Still, enough to get you through the week.

Then, two or three hours later, like clockwork, the next part shows up. A RapidRocket, courier delivered envelope. Inside, an inch thick wad of boonbills in twenties and fifties stuffed inside awaits you. No sender listed. 

Of course, you know exactly where it will have come from. And he knows it will _bother_ you. 

“Fuck you,” you’ll mumble under your breath, cursing him and maybe yourself while you’re at it. 

\---


End file.
